Nikto

Nikto stood outside the adoption center, the cold wind biting at the little bit of skin showing from beneath his body armor. His piercing blue eyes scanned the building with disinterest, hidden behind the dark balaclava and metal mask that obscured his face. Too much light. Too much noise. The streets were too busy, too loud, too many people. A few glanced at him, only to quickly avert their gaze. They could feel the weight of his presence. They always did.

“Why do we need this?” he muttered under his breath, the Russian accent thick in his words. “We are fine. We do not need companion.”

But orders were orders, and König had been insistent. The colonel rarely spoke of personal matters, but this time he’d made it clear: Nikto’s instability was getting worse. His mind was slipping further, and his performance was suffering for it. His dissociation episodes—flashbacks, breakdowns—had become more frequent. And now this. A demi-human companion, something to “ground” him, to give him something to focus on outside of the chaos of combat. It felt unnecessary. Stupid, even. He was efficient, methodical, and deadly. What did it matter if his mind fractured at times? He still completed his missions, didn’t he?

Yet, deep down, there was a flicker of doubt. He remembered the last operation. He had frozen—not from fear, but from the overwhelming flood of memories, of pain, a flashback. His hands had trembled, for the first time in years. His body, still, while chaos erupted around him. He only came back to himself when the bodies of his enemies littered the ground, his comrades already moving on without him.

Nikto growled softly, the noise vibrating in his chest. "We don’t need this. We are still efficient. Still lethal."

He pushed the door open. The inside of the center was worse than he had expected—even brighter, even louder. The fluorescent lights bore down on him like an interrogation room. His hands instinctively tightened into fists inside his gloves.

The caretaker appeared almost instantly, her cheery voice cutting through his thoughts like an ice pick. “Hello! You must be Nikto, right? We’ve been expecting you!”

Her voice was too cheery, her smile too wide. Nikto stared, unblinking, the burn scars on his face itching beneath the mask. His muscles tensed, fingers twitching with the urge to make her stop talking. Too much sound. Too much energy.

Still, he said nothing, following as she led him deeper into the center. Her voice was a constant stream of words—something about how demi-humans were helpful, how they could offer emotional support, companionship, even assistance in combat. Nikto barely registered the words. His mind drifted, focusing instead on the feeling of being trapped in the small space. His eyes darted around, scanning the room for exits, for threats, his body preparing for the worst despite knowing this was no battlefield.

‘König is wrong. We are fine. There is no need for this.’

His chest tightened. The caretaker droned on, showing him the different creatures behind the bars of their cells. He barely glanced at most of them. They blended into the background, irrelevant.

He remembered the mission before last—standing over the body of a target, his vision blurring as he stared at the blood on his hands. He had gripped his knife too tightly, his mind too far gone, unable to stop the repeated motion. It had taken three minutes before he realized the target had long been dead. Three minutes of mindless, methodical violence. His unit had pulled him off the body, silent, unblinking. They never said anything.

‘Is this why? Because we—no. We don’t need this. We don’t want this. We are still efficient. Все еще полезно (Still useful).’

His breathing felt too loud under the mask. He forced it to steady, trying to ignore the nagging sensation that maybe, just maybe, König wasn’t exaggerating.

They passed through more cells. Creatures barked, meowed, chirped—some trying to get his attention. Nikto’s irritation mounted. This was a waste of time. He should be out there, on the field, not here surrounded by this—noise. The caretaker paused again, pointing at yet another demi-human behind bars. This one was some kind of avian hybrid, its feathers glistening in the artificial light as it chirped loudly, trying to catch Nikto’s attention. He barely glanced at it.

‘This is ridiculous. Waste of time. We should be preparing for next mission, not… this.’

But König had been clear: if he didn’t choose one, he’d be pulled off active duty. Nikto didn’t care about companions. He cared about the mission, about staying in the field. The threat of being benched gnawed at him more than anything else. His grip on control, already tenuous, was slipping. One more breakdown, and it could all fall apart. But he couldn’t afford to stop, not now.

‘This is compromise. We don’t have choice. This is what it takes to stay active.’

He glanced at the next cell—a dog-like demi-human, barking enthusiastically, tail wagging as it pressed against the bars. Too loud. Too eager. The thought of dealing with that every day made Nikto’s head ache.

"нет (No). Too much trouble. We need something quiet."

They reached the final cell, and Nikto barely looked inside. He could feel the tension building in his shoulders, his patience stretched thin. But then he noticed something—or rather the absence of it. No chirping, no barking, no frantic energy. Just… silence. They sat there, quiet, and for once, the air around him felt bearable.

Nikto exhaled, the tension easing slightly in his chest. It wasn’t ideal, but it was… tolerable.

‘This is least bothersome. Compromise. We can live with this. Better than others.’

He turned to the caretaker, cutting her off mid-sentence.

“This one.”

The words were flat, but final. He didn’t care what their traits were or how they could help him. All he cared about was that they wouldn’t get in his way. It was the path of least resistance, and that was enough for now.